


Freak

by FcrestNymph



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Muggle Sherlock, Wizard John Watson, he has no idea johns a wizard lmao, just imagine the screaming, poor baby gets shocked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:26:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FcrestNymph/pseuds/FcrestNymph
Summary: Sherlock is bored. John is tagging along. When they stumble upon a malnourished child who doesn't even remember his name off the top of his head, they make a spur of the moment decision to investigate.The Dursleys never saw it coming.





	Freak

Sherlock was bored.

That seemed simple enough, didn’t it? Someone was bored, so they went out to the cinema, or perhaps took a stroll through a park. Maybe they got a coffee at a new cafe or went to pet dogs at a shelter. If they were well off, they might have taken a trip out of town to do some shopping.

But unfortunately, nothing was simple for Sherlock. Simple was boring, simple was foolish, simple was an idiot’s way of feeling normal. And Sherlock was  _ not  _ an idiot.

Whether it was due to boredom or a particularly uninteresting bus driver that managed to capture his eye just for how utterly  _ normal  _ he seemed, Sherlock had ended up in a part of England farther than he had expected to. Although it wasn’t as satisfying as shooting holes in the wall of his flat, a few kilometers of heavy stepped exploring did have a calming effect, albeit a small one. Even with someone at his side.

“Do hurry up John, I have places to be.”

“Places to be? You’ve dragged me along to wander England for hours, we’ve passed more than enough places you could have been.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, glancing at a family of ducks wandering across the empty street. They were in a suburban neighbourhood, weren’t they? He didn’t like the suburbs. Too quiet, too simple, too familial. He looked over his shoulder at the doctor trailing behind him. “I have to be wherever it’s interesting, and have we passed anywhere  _ interesting _ ? No, we--”

“Move it!"

Sherlock turned back to his front, eyes searching for the source of the loud order. His steps slowed to a stop, as did John’s. A young boy, perhaps ten or so, ran in front of them, his extraordinary amount of body fat jiggling as his short legs struggled to keep him moving. He was following a tall lanky boy who, in turn, was following a tiny child. No, no, he wasn’t. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, darting across the scene.

It wasn’t a game of tag, of course not. There was no irritating laughter, no gleeful smiles. Sure, there were smiles on two of the boys’ faces, but they were not the picture of childish innocence. The boy in the front of the group, the tiny one, was much different. No, his expression was of horror and fear, his entire body leaned forward, risking the chance of falling in his desperation to keep ahead. Shoes too big for his feet slapped the ground as he ran, baggy clothes hung from his thin frame--clothes that were nearly identical in make and treatment to the ones the obese boy was wearing, only older--, that child was not having fun.

Now, Sherlock didn’t have much expertise in the subject of fun, but he had seen his fair share of children--adults too--laugh and play. When he was a child, he never took part in silly playground games with school children, but he watched them sharply, learning in ways that didn’t need social interaction. This scrawny child was not playing, that much was obvious. He sneered at the obese boy for his rude first impression and watched the trio. His eyes scanned over them, taking in the details that many would not notice. The weight of their clothes, the similarities between the outfits, the condition of their hair. John had caught up to him and now stood at his side, following his gaze and frowning.

“So this is what you’ve come to see? Boys playing?”

“Tch, not playing, John, open your eyes.” He muttered, eyes darting up as a sickening voice called out for supper. Two of the boys looked up with interest, but the third didn’t react. He had stopped running though, which was a small mistake. As the two heavier set boys began walking to their house, the fatter one took the chance to shove the thin boy over. He landed in a heap on the grass. Sherlock waited until the two boys walked into a house before he made his way to the smaller one, struggling to stand up.

John took notice of where it was going and, knowing Sherlock’s insensitive approach, he stepped forward. “Hello, young man.” He said with a smile. “Your friends just went for supper, why don’t you go join them?”

The boy tensed up as the man spoke, but relaxed only a small bit as the words spoken were soft. He spoke up, keeping his eyes on the ground. “That’s my cousin and his f-friend, not mine, sir.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The boy stood stiffly, hands at his sides, fingers tensing and relaxing in a subconscious attempt to grab something and ground himself. “What’s your name?” He asked.

The boy frowned, brow furrowing. He was silent for a moment. “Harry, sirs. Harry Potter.”

Sherlock heard a sharp intake of breath from his flatmate, but brushed it off. “And you had to think about it because…?” It didn’t look like the boy had been lying, but why would he have to think about his own name?

“My aunt and uncle don’t like my name, I don’t think. I’m boy to them, or..” His face clouded momentarily. “Or freak.” He chewed his lower lip, grasping the lower hem of his too-large shirt and twisting it between his fingers. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to inhale, albeit only slightly quicker than usual.

“And why, pray tell, would you be called that?” He asked, casting a quick glance at John, who was staring in barely concealed surprise at the boy.

The boy--Harry, shrugged, but seemed to remember something and blurted out a vocal answer, stammering only a bit at the beginning, in his rush to speak. “B-because I am, sir.”

Sherlock’s hand shot out to grab the boy’s shoulder and inspect his shirt, but the moment his hand moved towards the boy, he flinched violently, stumbling a foot backwards. John moved forward, stepping in front of Sherlock in a none too concealed attempt at distancing the two awkward people. He kneeled down, reached out and gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey there, you okay?” He waited until he received a hesitant nod before continuing. “Can you tell me, Harry? Why would you be a freak?” John was a veteran and a doctor, he knew what the signs were for...Well, for trauma. Considering Sherlock’s interest in the boy, he saw it too.

Harry frowned, worrying his bottom lip until it was pink from abuse. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not allowed to talk about...To talk to strangers, I mean.” He stepped back, out of reach from John’s comforting hand. He turned his head slightly, but kept his eyes on the same spot on the ground in front of his feet.

Sherlock paused. Not many children were polite enough to call their elders ‘sir’, especially not every five seconds. But this wasn’t a show of respect, was it? The boy kept his face angled away, kept his gaze low, and his shoulders hunched. That wasn’t respect, it was fear. He glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. John met his gaze and frowned, looking at the child for a moment. He then nodded, a silent conversation between the two men.

“Alright Harry, we’d like to have a word with your aunt and uncle, if that’s alright.” John said with a smile that replaced his doubtful frown almost immediately.

The boy jerked back as if burned. “I...I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir. I can give them a message if you’d like. Are you two…” He finally looked up, his eyes scanning the two men’s outfits, but not meeting their gaze. “Do you two work with my uncle?”

“Something like that.” John explained.

It took a moment of consideration, but Harry turned, walking down the street. “This way, then.”

Sherlock noted the hunch to his back, as if already prepared for a blow from behind. He cleared his throat, gaining John’s attention. “Thoughts?” He asked coolly, keeping his voice down. From the way the Potter boy twitched, his words were heard by well trained ears.

“I’m surprised that this is what caught your attention, but I’m not against it.”

The trio were silent on the short walk to Potter’s home. It was a house that looked like any other. Freshly painted shutters, windows that sparkled in the sunlight, a garden that had more work done on it than John’s entire love life. That was definitely saying something. It didn’t stick out, it was just perfect enough. Not too fancy, not too drab, it fit in the neighbourhood perfectly. Sherlock didn’t like it.

They got to the front steps and Harry paused, turning his head towards the two men. “I’m sorry, would you mind if I went inside and let them know you’re here?” He waited until one of the men, Sherlock, nodded, before opening the door and stepping inside. He closed it behind him, but didn’t push hard enough for the door to fully click shut.

“Abused, I think.” John started, staring at the door as if it was exceedingly interesting.

“Yes, quite. Hand me downs and a less than pleasant family as well.”

“Can you believe he had to think about his name? I mean, if  _ Harry Potter  _ doesn’t know who he is, then--”

Sherlock looked at his flatmate, his brow furrowing. “You know him?”

“What? Oh! Oh, no, of course not. Sorry, forget that.” John offered a smile that wasn’t entirely truthful. Sherlock didn’t pry. He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted as the door in front of them opened. A woman stood in the doorway, half hidden behind the door. 

John stepped forward, grinning. “Hello! So glad to find you home. We met a young man on the street, and we were hoping to speak to his guardians. Polite young man, pointed us in the right direction.”

The woman’s face twisted, making her horse-like features even more unflattering. She quickly schooled them. “Yes, Dudley is quite the gentleman. Helps out everyone he can, you know.”

“Ah, we were referring to a Mister Harry Potter?”

The woman sneered, her lip curling. “No, I’m sorry, no boy of that name lives here. Have a good day.” She moved to close the door in their faces, but Sherlock quickly stepped forward, placing a hand on the door.

“But you are the residents of Number 4 Privet Drive, correct?” He offered a charming smile, showing his teeth. The woman hesitated, looking him over critically. After she seemed to be somewhat satisfied, she nodded.

“Yes, I am. What of it?”

“Do you by any chance make purchases at the Surrey department store?” He had seen the fat boy wearing rather new trainers.

She nodded, opening the door slightly. “For my son, yes.”

“Ah! Perfect. Well, you see, we’ve been running a bit of a contest for the shoppers there. Every five hundred customers, there is one winner. You seem to have won!” He said cheerfully, earning a surprised look from his flatmate.

The woman paused. “Oh, did I? Well, I…” She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at the men on her doorstep. “Well, alright then. Do I need to sign something?”

Sherlock fished in his pocket, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. The pen had been stolen from Mycroft’s office, just because the stuck up Holmes was such a pen hoarder. “We would actually love a moment of your time, to ask some questions.” There was only a small moment of silence before the woman opened the door, allowing them in.

“Vernon dear, we have guests!” She called out. “The ones we were told about, remember?”

Sherlock paused as a hulking form of a man stepped out of the living room and into the hallway. The hall could barely hold his bulk, his fat arms were almost touching the picture frames hanging on the walls. “Guests, eh?” The man sneered, shooting a quick glance at a small door under the stairs. “Not anyone freaky, then?”

“No no, Vernon, we’ve won a prize! I’ve been telling you, karma has been owing us a rather large favour for what we’ve been doing, haven’t I?”

The man, Vernon, looked over at the other men. “Where did you say you were from?”

“The prize is from the Surrey department store.” John said quickly, eager to join in the ruse Sherlock was setting up. “Would you mind if we sat down?”

The horse faced woman nodded, moving towards the kitchen. The husband had to waddle out of the hallway to allow her to pass. “I’ll make some tea,” she called, “if you’d just sit in the living room?”

Sherlock and John nodded agreeably and moved to the living room, where the massive Vernon was already taking up the loveseat, his fat practically oozing off the edges. The two sat down on the sofa, and Sherlock set the pad of paper on his lap. “So your name is?”

“Dursley, Vernon Dursley.” The fat man said, tilting up his many chins in a show of pride. “And that’s my wife, Petunia.”

“Any children?”

“Yes, my son Dudley. A great boy, I do say.”

Sherlock gave John a look, but continued with the questions. Dudley Dursley, who thought up such a stupid name?

“Family of, how many?”

“Three.”

“Oh, just three?”John piped up, earning a sharp, odd look from Vernon.

“Yes. Three. Do you speak English?”

“I do, in fact. As well as Dari and Vietnamese.” 

Vernon huffed, but dropped the subject. “Family of three, all well mannered.”

“Ah, of course.” John said, taking the slight relaxation of Sherlock’s shoulders as a sign that he could take charge with the questions. “And your son does well in school, I assume?”

“Yes, very well. Top of his class, all the other little buggers are jealous.”

“And what school does he go to, if I may ask? St. Grogory’s, perhaps a private school? There’s one I can’t entirely remember the name of...Hog..Hogwarts?”

Teacups shattered, scalding liquid soaking into the carpet. Two screams, one shrill and one angry, filled the room. Petunia, having just entered the room, jumped back to avoid her legs being burned by the tea she had dropped, and Vernon immediately starting cursing and yelling.

“You won’t speak of that school in this household!” Vernon screamed, and John held up his hands in surrender.

“I’m so sorry, did I say something wrong?” He asked worriedly, glancing from Petunia to Vernon and back again. “Is there an issue with St. Grogory’s?”

The two Dursleys stilled, looking sharply at Watson. Vernon looked about to say something, but glanced to his wife, conversing wordlessly with nothing other than fish-out-of-water expressions and choking noises. Finally, Vernon cleared his throat. He didn’t seem to notice Sherlock’s intense staring at his flatmate, but John sure did. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Sorry, my apologies, just...Just a bit jumpy I think. No intentions of startling you.” Vernon said tightly, his face twisted, as if trying to swallow a slice of lemon.

“Nor I, you.” John said with a smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye. Sherlock didn’t have that knowing twinkle, and it irritated him, not knowing.

“So, family of three, only you, your wife, and your son.” He leaned back, nodding at Sherlock to continue for him.

Sherlock watched for a moment as Petunia picked up the small shards of teacups on the carpet, her hands shaking. He refocused his attention on the husband, and opened his mouth to speak.

  
  
  


Ten minutes later, both Petunia and Vernon were unconscious in the living room. John had a wand in his hand and the lock on the cupboard under the stairs was melted off. It only took a quick spell to figure out where Harry Potter was located, though Sherlock seemed to already have figured it out. John had an arm around the skinny boy and they stood out on the front yard, Sherlock standing stiffly, his eyes wide. He turned to John, who looked back with an excited, nervous smile. “What in the  _ bloody hell _ \--”

The shocked outburst was interrupted with a loud crack of Disapparation, and just like that, they were gone.

Inside the house, scribbled on Sherlock’s pad of paper with John’s writing, was a note.

‘He’s not in your hands anymore, but you won’t be able to take care of him anyways. Say hi to the authorities when they arrive. Have fun in Azkaban, Dursleys!

\--Auror John Hamish Watson’

**Author's Note:**

> Comments keep me happy and excited to write! First PotterLock thing I've ever done. Hope it's adequate!


End file.
